


Like Old Times

by charlottechill



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: M/M, Old West, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-15
Updated: 2011-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:58:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottechill/pseuds/charlottechill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It really is like old times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Old Times

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published September 21, 2003  
> Thanks to the Drinking 'n Fighting yahoo group for all their support.

 

 _nine years ago, 1866_

The man wasn't spectacular. He was fair, middle height, on the thin side. His hair was blond and stringy, he had what might've been a straight, small nose, but it had been broken more than once and had mended badly. The feature Buck figured he would remember was the eyes. They were flat and cold, and plenty familiar to the likes of Buck Wilmington; he had seen eyes like those plenty, as a boy. And they were a stormy kind of green, a little like Chris'.

The man was an ornery cuss, just like those eyes had promised, so Buck turned back to the bar and rested his boot up on the rail, ignoring him as he deserved. But Chris, Buck realized, hadn't taken his eyes off the man, was smiling just as cold and deadly as the stranger himself. "Chris?" he asked, quietly so as not to startle. But Chris wasn't sparing him any attention at all.

Sighing, Buck nodded at the bartender and ordered a pint bottle. If he was lucky, they'd drink most of it and then pour themselves into a bed somewhere. But from the mean look on his partner's profile, he wasn't going to get lucky tonight. He wondered if the cards would treat him any better.

Refilling their glasses and turning around, he held one out for Chris, waiting patiently for him to take it. A few seconds passed before a hand reached blindly, and Buck got the glass in it without sloshing good whiskey on the floor.

"I'm gonna go see if I can't get into one of them poker games."

"Don't lose," Chris said mildly, and Buck chortled.

"Oh, I ain't plannin' to," he said, and wandered away. All the men at the tables were older than him, in their thirties at least. Several of them were good.

He played smart and was still eight dollars down when the stranger must've got sick of Chris' eyes boring a hole through his neck, but Buck won the next pot and brought himself almost fifteen dollars up before a chair toppled over. He wondered if he could get in another hand before somebody called somebody out or the fight grew too big for him to sit it out, but the cards were running hot and cold, and he decided he'd rather impress Chris and go out on a win. Nodding and smiling to the men whose money he'd taken, Buck cleaned off the felt and scooted his chair around to watch the show. So far, nobody had joined in to help one or the other of the pair.

"Who are they?" the fellow beside him whispered.

"That there's Chris Larabee," he replied, always happy to tell a tale, "and that other gentleman, well, I was hopin' you could tell me."

No one knew. Apparently the stranger had ridden in a few days before, and been causing people minor bother ever since.

Buck chatted idly with the men he'd been playing cards with, for the few minutes it took for the pissing contest to get thrown outside, and they all followed to watch the fight. The tension was thick in the air, and Buck stared between the two men, waiting for illumination that did not come. Chris kept pushing the stranger, taunting, so it wasn't much of a surprise when the man drew, and even less of a surprise when Chris drew faster and shot straighter and put two bullets into him.

Then the strange thing happened; Chris stormed back into the saloon, shouldering through the audience on the boardwalk, retrieved the whiskey bottle, strode right back out and climbed on his horse. He put the spurs to the good-tempered gelding and it jumped into a gallop, straight down the main street and out of town.

Buck scratched his head, wondering why it had gone beyond name-calling or bare fist fighting. Hell, he was surprised Chris had wasted his time on the man at all. It wasn't like the ornery cuss had been causing them any trouble directly.

The man had been stupid, but he hadn't merited a killing. Buck walked over to the shot man and knelt down by him, checking to see if he was dead. Not just yet, but near enough; the dirt beneath him was dark with blood. "Hey, you," he called out, slapping the man lightly on the cheek to see if he was still in there. "You got a name?" The last sound the stranger made was a long, slow groan. He didn't breathe again.

The sheriff arrived as Buck rose, so he settled back to let the man do his job. Buck offered his statement and stood back, listening as other witnesses corroborated his story, keeping an eye on the afternoon sun and wondering how far Chris would ride. It wouldn't be hard to swing back into this town tonight, or tomorrow if it took Buck that long to find him.

"Well, sheriff, if you won't be needin' me directly, I'll just be on my way."

"Your friend, he in the habit of this?"

Buck rested his palm on his pistol butt, chuckling a little. "I wouldn't call it a habit, no. Like I said, that feller on the ground there started it, and well, Chris Larabee ain't against finishing things, is all."

"You see this Larabee fella, you tell him from me that we don't take kindly to killings round here, justified or no."

"I surely will, sheriff. We'll swing back through tonight or tomorrow, probably, so Chris can tell you the story himself." He pointed to the body. "If that dead guy ain't got no family around these parts, I'll have a look at his belongings when we get back."

"We don't kill for property around here, mister."

"Neither does my friend," Buck said with a smile and a tip of his hat, "but this fella ain't gonna need it anymore, now, is he?"

He strolled over to his horse and tightened the cinch, swung up and reined it out. "C'mon, girl," he whispered, trotting out on Chris' trail.

 

Chris heard the hoof beats long before he saw Buck, wondering if he wanted to be found, wondering what had taken the man so long. "Up here," he called out as they approached, so as not to startle man or beast.

Buck was walking, holding his horse's reins and looking curiously, contentedly, around the boulder-strewn meadow Chris had found. He pulled off his horse's saddle and bags and unbridled her, then fished a bit of carrot out of his pocket for her, and Chris felt a pang of irritation that Buck babied his horses so. Buck moseyed over and sat down beside him, stretching out his long legs and reaching for the half-empty whiskey bottle.

"That wasn't like you," Buck said, taking a drink himself.

"He didn't deserve even what kindness I gave him," Chris growled back, his gut churning with old hate.

"Who was he?"

"He wasn't nobody, not nobody at all."

"Now Chris--"

He elbowed Buck in the ribs to get himself some room. "Leave it, Buck!"

"Well all right," Buck said, all quiet now. He knew Buck was watching him, knew Buck wasn't thinking about ladies or drinking or fighting, was just watching him, and loving him, and waiting.

The urge came on him suddenly, as it often did, and he set the bottle aside and turned. He stared hard until he saw recognition flare in Buck's eyes, and then he was on him, smelling leather and sweat and cheap, musky cologne, tasting the faint tang of beer and whiskey and the hot, wet, animal flavor he'd only ever found inside Buck Wilmington's mouth.

Buck warmed to it in a heartbeat like he always did, and Chris felt the hands at his gun belt scrabbling urgently against the thick leather. He was no better off himself. They got themselves half undressed somehow, and after he kicked off his pants he pushed Buck around and dragged him up to his knees, manhandling him, taking advantage of those long legs being still tangled in trousers. He spit into his hand, rubbed, pressed, while those strong, hobbled thighs tried to part for him, and those big hands spread themselves flat on the rock, Buck readying to push himself back, to fight him to reach the finish.

His breath came so fast, he felt light-headed, and he straddled his partner's leg, rucked the cotton shirt and thin undershirt up to watch his hands knead over that broad, smooth back. When he shoved forward, something happened though, something strange. Buck grunted, and he watched Buck's hands on the rock, flexing and tightening with that first sharp pain. And he paused.

"Wait, wait a second," he urged, unsure if he was talking to Buck or to himself.

"God _damn_ it, don't slow down now!" Buck growled, trying to push back onto him.

But that was exactly what he was going to do. He had pounded his rage into Buck often enough, and knew that Buck had done the same to him on more than one occasion, and they had no complaints so far. But Chris remembered that bastard on the ground a mile away, and a bastard on a floor twenty years ago, and he didn't want his anger driving him. Not right now.

"Easy," he whispered, gentling Buck just like he would a half-wild horse, "whoa, slow down. We're gonna get there, I promise you."

Buck just whimpered, and Chris felt that sound so deep inside his gut he almost gave up on his urge. Almost. "Easy," he said again.

He urged Buck over to sit, and knelt to pull off the man's boots. Buck slapped the rock behind him, his face screwed up with frustrated heat. Chris just smiled, and shook his head. Trousers next, showing all that heavy manhood and pale long leg and he chuckled, amazed now as always that when he looked at that masculine body, that body that by rights should be so unappealing to him, he wanted it so desperately. Finally he unbuttoned the shirt and pushed it back over broad shoulders and grinned down into eyes that were just beginning to quiet.

"You gonna keep your hat on?" he teased, and Buck just frowned.

"Maybe."

Chris shrugged, pulling off his own shirt and straddling Buck's hips, pressing their naked skin together. "Suit yourself."

The hat came off soon enough, and the hands that came up to hold his face carried a gentleness that told Chris Buck had caught up with his intentions. This was what he needed, what he suspected they both could use a little more of. They touched, and soothed, and he held that big cock in his hand just to see Buck's mouth fall open as his eyes half-closed in shuddering pleasure. When Buck turned again it was with a look of such sweet longing, Chris knew exactly how this would go. He got up and rifled through his saddlebags, finding grease to ease their way, looked back to catch Buck holding his shaft absently, worriedly. He couldn't hold back a chuckle.

"I'm comin' right back," he assured, matching word to deed and settling back behind him. He used his hands better, more gently, taking deep measured breaths to keep his body quiet; it reacted so strongly to Buck's tiny noises, to those hips swiveling back on his fingers, to the fact that Buck just wanted him, impure and simple, that Chris wanted to rut again. He dropped a kiss to the join of neck and shoulder and put his knees between Buck's, lined up key to lock and pressed slowly home.

Buck's long, lush groan splintered through him, and he moved mindlessly, responding to every twitch in the body he worked with, giving whatever touch he could think of. One of Buck's hands flailed back helplessly, urgent for more contact. He grabbed it up, braiding their fingers, wrapping his other arm securely around Buck's waist to hold them together. When Buck froze and whimpered and bit back a scream of completion, the slick channel gripped him tightly; Chris sucked air through his teeth, aching in more ways than one, and himself over to it, moving that bit faster, that bit harder and spilling into his friend's body.

Afterward, they spooned in the late afternoon sun, and kissed slowly, languidly, while grass blades and pebbles imprinted themselves all down his side. And in the still silence between them, the words bubbled up.

"My daddy," Chris said haltingly, "wasn't much of a man. Didn't like kids, didn't like me or my sister none, didn't like my ma. Truth be, I never knew why he stayed." He waited for withdrawal, for any sign from Buck, but the big hand just kept carding through his hair. "He used to growl and scream, and he'd beat us on and off for next to no reason. Then one day he pushed my little sister too hard and she down a flight of stairs, banged her head up bad. She was simple, after that." There was more to tell, more he didn't want to think about, and he felt weak for saying all this; he'd had a roof over his head and food in his belly, most days, and he'd learned enough about the world to be able to strike out early and meet it head-on. And now, he had a friendship like he'd never had before. But he went on, finishing what he'd started. "That man lying on the street, down there, he..." he didn't know how to explain it. "He _felt_ like him."

Buck's hand stilled, and cradled his head. When Buck kissed him again, it was so light and soft that the new moustache tickled something awful, and something deep in Chris's chest shifted because that simple, sinful touch felt a whole lot like grace. "Then everyone's better off that you killed him," Buck said quietly.

"That ain't a reason, Buck," he derided.

"Hell, Chris," Buck laughed, "nobody needs a reason to kill nobody! You had a better one than most. Be quiet now, you've got me all satisfied and lazy and I'm liking this."

He knew Buck was wide awake and just trying to divert him from telling too many secrets. He knew Buck was right, that later he'd be sullen with them both, and he wasn't sure why he kept opening his fool mouth. "But that ain't all..."

"Don't matter none," Buck whispered mildly. "It's whatever it was, and it don't have to have a hold on you now."

But it did. Today, it did. He pressed in a little closer, feeling oddly vulnerable and oddly safe curled up naked like this, like kids, like lovers in the grass, sharing secrets in the lowering light. He couldn't let it go.

He felt the warm breath against his face when Buck sighed, but the quiet words still surprised him. "What have I told you about my ma?"

"Plenty," Chris said. Buck had told stories of laughter and late night talks that made Chris envy the man, made him understand where Buck must've got that girlish kindness. Those stories had made him think of his own mother, and the good things she'd given him that had won out over the gifts from his daddy.

A hand stroked slowly down his back, big and warm, and parked itself just above the swell of his butt. "Well then, you know she was the kindest woman, and her heart, it was as big as a house. She loved me so dear..." a pause lengthened, and Chris felt the man's body tighten a little. "She loved me, and she loved all the ladies she worked with almost as much. I reckon my pa was something like yours, though." The voice was quiet and contented, and it lulled him.

"What happened to him?" he asked, to keep Buck talking.

"Don't rightly know. Just know he gave her hell sometimes. Didn't give me the time of day though, even though I knew who he was. He'd just walk into the parlor, wait for mama, and pay for her like she was any other whore, and when he disappeared, I sure as hell didn't miss him. "

"Wh...? She... oh." That explained a lot. "I'm sorry, Buck."

"I'm not. My mama loved me to pieces, and she worked hard, and I got raised by a passel of beautiful women who took pity on me from a very tender age." Buck's chuckle was strained, but it tried to sound content. "I ain't never found fault with that life." That explained a whole hell of a lot, all right. No wonder he treated whores like they were all his sisters. "Tell me what you need to tell me, Chris. I'll listen. But it won't make no difference to me, not one bit."

Maybe he didn't have to say anything more right now. He sure as hell didn't want to. "Feel right stupid, all that coming out like that, especially to you. You didn't even have no pa to speak of."

"And I'm glad of it," Buck said, still quiet. "Look what I could've had."

Well. Buck surely was right about that. "It's gonna get cold, soon," he muttered, half embarrassed, half asleep.

"Yeah." Buck's arms dragged him a little closer, and a long leg tucked a little deeper between his. "Be quiet."

 

 _...the present, 1875_

Chris started awake, memory still so clear in his mind that it took him a moment to recognize where he was. His cabin, almost finished, outside Four Corners. Dawn was just rising outside the tiny window. Twined tight with him on this too-small bed, Buck sighed in his sleep. The sweat that sealed their naked skin together tugged uncomfortably.

"Shh," he said now, as he had so many times, so many years ago.

He wasn't sure this had been a good idea, hadn't been sure last night when they'd started at it, but the memory of passion between them was so sweet, on those rare occasions that he let himself recall. And when Buck had ridden out to present the gift of window glass, wrapped in burlap and held carefully in his hands, Chris had remembered so many things.

Buck stirred again, and he felt the heavy muscle of a thigh flex and tighten, pressing his partner's groin into his side. Well, one part of him was waking up. Chris felt a fond smile creep up, and let it lie undisturbed on his mouth.

This had been a good idea. All of it. Not in all their years of friendship had it ever even occurred to Buck to try and hold on to him, so Chris couldn't rightly worry about it now. That was one of the reasons they were still close after all this time, he mused, sliding a hand up the smooth skin at Buck's waist and over his ribs. Violent, neglectful, indifferent, bitchy like brothers sometimes and still thick as thieves, they had themselves a strange kind of love that survived everything life had thrown so far.

The big body stirred again, and Chris's eyes fell to its new lines, its new scars. Buck was still handsome, and would be for years to come--a gift of fate that he would obviously age well, and continue chasing women for as long as he was fast enough to catch them. But the once-smooth skin was marked with stories, close calls, anger, and plain old stupidity... the scar from when they'd got drunk on a roof, and Buck had fallen off... the pale white line across Buck's chest from not so very long ago.

Buck's eyes opened, and he drew in a long breath. "Hmm... Chris?"

"Yeah."

Buck blinked owlishly at him, and then around at the room. Then his face broke into a sleepy grin. "Just like old times, huh?" he asked, before putting his head back down. "Wake me up when you're ready for another round, old pard," he mumbled, tugging Chris closer, and promptly fell back asleep.

Horny old goat. Buck'd doubtless limp after him, when the women got too quick or too young.

Chris wasn't worried. Curling a little closer, pulling himself another inch away from the edge of the bed and the danger of rolling onto the floor, he settled back down himself. Seemed like they were destined to be pieces of each other's lives for a long time to come. If he was still alive when Buck got that desperate, well, maybe by that time, he'd let the old boy catch him.

 

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"because there's more to life than drinkin' and fighting."


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